


Pride

by LMX



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Childhood, Gen, Names of Choice, Nobility, One Shot Collection, Original Character Death(s), Seminary, Soldiers, Surgery, Swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2429978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMX/pseuds/LMX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're a product of their upbringings, their backgrounds, and the world that has shaped them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will just be a series of one-shots while I get used to these characters and decide if I want to write more of them. I probably won't be saying anything that hasn't already been said before, probably less elegantly, definitely with less of a grasp on this historical setting.

The battlefield was ragged underfoot, the weather and the undressed fields leading to an uneven rutted mess which even now hid the bodies of dead and dying men from both sides of the conflict.

"You survived then." The voice was dry, and Porthos recognised the wry expression more than the voice itself as he turned away from the gory view.

"And you," he greeted the soldier he knew only as Athos as they stumbled together through the field towards their encampment. They were neither of them talkers, though Porthos remembered a time when he had been a man to talk on any topic at length, setting the world to rights alongside Flea and Charon, but the two soldiers seemed to take comfort in the silent presence of the other. He wondered if the other soldier even knew his name, as they found the edge of the damaged farmland and stepped straight in amongst the carefully arranged tents. It was true they'd barely shared more than a handful of words in their acquaintance, and had certainly not been formally introduced at their meeting.

They had gathered a few more men into their silent company as they had walked, though none from Porthos' unit. Field nurses and apprentices continued to rush out past them with stretchers and then back in towards the large centre tent, their canvas loaded with casualties. Porthos wasn't sure what he should do next, standing on the outskirts of their mobile town. Did he announce his survival to someone? His captain was dead, he'd seen him fall in the first volley, who did he answer to now?

Before he could think to ask the others, a rider approached them. He was richly dressed and armoured, though the cloth was muddied nearly as much as the rest of them, and a set of very fine pistols sat on his belt with powder scorches showing that they had been fired. They scrambled to clear a path to the command hub, where it was rumoured the King sat with his generals, but he pulled up alongside them instead of passing. He studied the group carefully, his eyes lingering on Athos, and it seemed to Porthos that he might recognise the rugged face before he spoke up.

"You, and you," he indicated Porthos first, and then Athos with more hesitancy. "Tidy yourselves up. You're to be presented in front of the King."

"The King?!" Porthos choked as the other soldiers started to scatter.

"May we ask why?" Athos demanded flatly, seemingly unimpressed by the idea of meeting their monarch.

The Musketeer sat casually on his horse and waited until the other men had dispersed before speaking further. "I am Captain Treville, of the King's Musketeers." He waited for that to sink in, as if expecting some kind of response. He seemed a little put out when he received none from either soldier. "The Musketeers regiment lost fifteen men today, and the surgeon tells me we may yet lose another." Porthos could read the haunted grief on the Captain's face, and was surprised by his openness of expression over the death of his subordinates. He couldn't imagine their captain so much as remembering their names. The Captain shook off his sorrow and turned his attention back to the two of them. "He will look to bolster the ranks immediately, before we return to Paris if possible, though he won't do it without thought. I had opportunity to see you both fight today, you're good candidates."

"The King's Musketeers..." Porthos mused. "They only allow the sons of the nobility to guard the King."

"The King has little interest in your birth, soldier. He's shaken and poorly protected, should you show the same skill and courage as you've shown in the defence of his lands to his person, you can give him any name you choose, use the noble 'de' if you wish."

Porthos was honestly shocked at the straightforward nature of the Captain's words. Few would ever dare to describe the King as 'shaken', and the idea of just acquiring a noble name with none to question it...

"What about no name at all?" the other soldier asked, startling Porthos out of his musing on how much better 'du Vallon' sounded than Porthos Vallon. He'd chosen the surname on a whim when a soldier had told him he needed one for his papers. A travelling salesperson had once told him how beautiful the Ardeche Valley was, and the man had been so enraptured by his own description he'd not noticed that Flea had emptied his purse and the trunk from his carriage.

Treville gave the solider Porthos knew as Athos a long look, and it occurred to Porthos that Athos was also a place on a map that might become a name should you not have one, or wish to share your own. "A name, at least, though of your choosing if necessary. I care not."

Porthos knew full well the opportunity they was being presented with, it's rarity and good fortune. The King's Musketeers were a renowned battalion - ostensibly made up of the low nobility and the younger sons of higher nobility. Those young men who were not needed to run a family estate, and had the time and funds to be trained in swordsmanship, hunting and all the ways to flatter and protect a King.

Sourcing from such varied stock, the King's Musketeers lived a life rather more cushy than the lowly soldier. They had their own garrison, so as to be available to their King at all hours, were provided light meals while on duty, and a purse one could easy live from even with uniform and weaponry deducted. He would bite M. Treville's hand from his wrist for such a position, but his new friend looked less enthused and Porthos held his tongue until he could determine what catch he was missing.

"Come, friend," he urged. "You can't be thinking of turning this offer down?"

"It seems..." The soldier shot him a glance, and it was so shadowed as to make Porthos frown. "Too easy, perhaps. To give up this life to stand guard over tea parties and meaningless hunts."

"It would be hard toil indeed," Porthos corrected, more convinced than ever that he should take this post, and drag Athos with him. "All that peace and quiet. Being shot at maybe once, twice a year..."

"The finest food and wine," Treville added, unabashed at listening in. "A uniform you can be proud of."

Athos seemed to pause, and finally nodded. "Gentlemen, I cannot help but be swayed to your position."


	2. Chapter 2

There are no paintings of Olivier de la Fere as a child.

It wasn't something he had noticed at the time. Only when he came to inherit the family seat, its title and responsibilities, and the house in which he'd grown.

As the brand new Comte de la Fere drifted through rooms he'd never had interest in; looked into cupboards; emptied out trunks, he took inventory of two paintings of his parents (so young in each one, he forgets how young she was when she passed), three of his father's favoured horse and hunting dog, several of various forebears and their assorted families and pets (there were two of the Chevalier who had first earned their family title), and nine of Thomas. Thomas as a babe-in-arms, Thomas with the now elderly hunting dog, Thomas on his first horse. The absence was glaring, unavoidable, but perhaps unsurprising. He knew his place in this house.

He was too young to carry with him the image of the elderly surgeon standing over him and explaining to his father how they would cut the edges of the wound that cleft his lip, how they would stitch the edges to close it. He would not remember the surgery, or the outrageous money that would change hands in payment for making their eldest son acceptable to the noble court he would one day have to present himself to. But he would feel the weight of that spent money. The expectation of return.

At times he thought he might remember fever and pain. He knew that he had long refused to talk or smile or eat for fear of tearing delicate stitches, long since healed, but he had few memories of that which not been provided by his father's voice.

He has a memory of himself, maybe seven years of age, which would make his brother an inquisitive five. He wakes to Thomas' screams and cries and warm blood on his face, on his bedclothes and his hands. He quiets his brother without speaking, his heart beating so hard his hands shake from it, and starts to clean up the blood. From his nose, his father explains later, having been too far across the house to hear Thomas' cries. But the fear the blood invokes stays with him for a long time after that, all the same.

He remembers with surety his parents despairing glances, Thomas reaching out with pudgy fingers and being pushed away, needing to speak until it overwhelmed his fear and being surprised to find that after so much time silent the pain is in his throat, not his lip.

His words stayed rare and awkward for more years than he had just cause for. He went to battle with the King's armies because it was expected of him, and he revelled in the opportunity more than he had ever expected, growing in an environment where to go unheard was no failing on his part. His silent return at the end of the campaign was met with cold welcome and the quiet disdain his father had held for all things after his mother's death. After six months absent he found Thomas a young man, with the leanings of a politician as he took to the books his father had collected and made a regular pilgrimage to Paris to sit in attendance at the court his father had long eschewed.

His father kept him in La Fere long enough to ensure he was competent to manage the estate, and allowed him to return to where he could be silent and unnoticed. From time to time he dreamed that maybe he would not return from the next campaign and beloved Thomas would take the responsibility of his title from him. Later, after his father's death, wandering through a house filled with the life he had enjoyed but kept himself separate from, he would feel guilty for thinking such things.

At nineteen, sporting a rough young moustache and carrying his father's title heavily upon his shoulders, he commissioned two paintings to sit side by side - Thomas and Olivier.

Not until Anne, not until the moment he came across her accosted by bandits and overwhelmed, not until she held his gaze and kissed him on those godforsaken lips, did he believe anyone could look upon him with praise in their eyes.

He would have loved her until the end of the Earth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just trying to link the start of the TV show in to the start of the book slightly. Assume d'Artagnan knew nothing of his father's plans as they headed towards Paris.

"Again!" Charles called, raising his foil as Rubert scrambled to his feet with a grin on his face.

Across the field, ostensibly watching the sheep return from summer grazing as the efficient farmhands separated them into two separate farms, two proud fathers looked on.

"My Rubert hasn't been able to match Charles for years now, Alexandre." Saul rocked back in the seat, glancing the way of his old friend. "When will you free him to service of the King?"

"When hell freezes, my friend," Alexandre bit back. "My son's life is not worth so little that I would entrust it to such as King as Louis."

There was a flourish of steel between the two boys, both men smiled at the childish shouts. "His skill will wither, a talent wasted." Saul shook his head. "He will resent you if you hold him here."

"And Rubert?"

"A born farmer," Saul returned, nodding with an approving smile. "Despite your storytelling and your fencing lessons. He has no need of a dog, the sheep flock to him like an old friend. He and Charles are destined for different things, Alex. Can you not see it in him yet?"

"Alas, old friend. I saw it in him as a young child, demanding only stories from beyond Gascony's fair fields. But he is hot blooded, quick to anger, and kind hearted despite it. He will bring peril in his every encounter - I fear a soldier's life would destroy him."

Saul shrugged, neither in agreement or denial. "And what of our old friend? Does Jean still hold court over the King's personal guard?"

"His Musketeers," Alexandre corrected, and nodded at his neighbour's sudden look of understanding.

"Should you present him," Saul began, more tentative now. "Your friendship might surely gain you some measure of influence. The King's Musketeers may have a reputation, but it's still a far call from the harsh nature of the Army."

"I would not have it seem we were sending him away. He still enjoys the work on the farm, until he asks me directly, I won't mention it."

There was a clattering of steel as Rubert's sword span from his hands and into the sand, a cry of triumph from the young Charles.

"My friend, I don't think he would object in the slightest." Saul stood slowly and carefully, mindful of his age. "While you are in Paris, of course, you should remind M. de Treville of his childhood home, and have a care to tell him how his majesty's new taxes and the brute collecting them are affecting our fine lands."

"Of course."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' bit is coming, but it's a bit longer than the others. He ran away with me, and he loves to talk, so I'm letting him.

If Aramis had been offered one word to describe the young man then known as Rene d'Herblay, he would have used 'angry'. Perhaps also heartbroken, bereft, abandoned, but then he'd never been good at brevity.

Unlike many men in his position he did not blame God for all that he had lost. He threw his attention into the studies he had begun, but spent every free moment following the trails of Isabelle's disappearance, like a perfume lingering in people's smiles and good spirits. Always taking him nowhere, only to further frustration as he hurried back for the next mass, the next lesson.

It's his tutor who eventually suggested to take some time to visit Paris; a pilgrimage, as it were, to take in St. Chapelle and Notre Dame. His goal was to learn to be silent, to learn to appreciate what was still present in the here and now. What God still offered him.

Perhaps the teacher, maybe even with his father's guidance, had thought the noise and voracity, the sheer depravity of Paris would scare the boy - second son of a modestly wealthy landowner and never having left the lands he grew up on - into returning pious and quiet. Ready to serve God.

Maybe they had just wanted to be free of his noisy knee-jiggling energy in their classrooms and churches.

Either way, he'd been in Paris less than a week when they received a letter informing them that he was putting his education on hold briefly, and would his father mind penning a letter to request his entry into the Army (musketeers regiment, it specified carefully) as he had discovered himself a remarkably adept shot with a musket.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some amazing meta which set my mind a-spinning on Porthos' need to continue to improve his circumstances: http://crabsandlobsters.tumblr.com/post/100746796118/musketeers-meta-porthos-his-flaws-and-facing-them  
> Also, as mentioned in this meta post, if you're not reading [Rainjoy's Affinity Verse fic](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=rainjoyswriting&keyword=Musketeers%3A%20Affinityverse&filter=all) you really should be. It's incredible.

They were not willing to let Millie's body go into a pauper's grave, and in the Court there was no one who cared to write down her name or take notes on her passing, so they wrapped her emaciated body up in fine linen stolen from an inattentive tailor's assistant and walked in mournful procession down to the river.

She lay straighter in death than she'd ever stood in life, the sickness that had twisted her back as she grew until she could barely stand at all had released her at last. Charon was dry eyed in his grief and Porthos sobbed like the child he had barely finished being. Flea they had left in the bed where Millie had died, gazing into space as if something was missing in her.

Her body sank into the water quietly, and disappeared beneath the surface. Porthos knew there should be words, spoken with reverence - it was his strongest memory of his mother's death, the words the priest had spoken about her - but he didn't know where those words came from, and didn't trust himself to find ones of equal value.

"If we'd have just found a surgeon in time..." Porthos breathed, unable to take his eyes from the water. The ripples that marked her passing were already fading.

Charon's voice was a growl, as he replied, "My God, Porthos. Stop."

"We could have..." He wasn't sure what they could have done. The blood in her hair and on her face flashed before Porthos' eyes, Flea's pale horror as she soothed her, touching what skin hadn't been beaten into bruises and cuts.

"She was dying when we met her," Charon ground out. "This was quicker, an end to her pain. No surgeon would have come into the Court to tell us that."

"This wasn't her body failing," Porthos snarled. "It was murder."

"They don't see it that way, those dogs outside the Court." Charon turned his back on Millie's resting place and spat on the ground.

"It's not right. No one's life should be worth so little." Porthos' tears had faded and all the other onlookers had already scattered back into the city proper, leaving the two of them and the river. "We should leave," Porthos said, not for the first time. "Just the three of us. We're nothing in the Court, and if we don't leave we'll stay nothing."

Charon snarled, and started back towards their home. "I'm not nothing, Porthos. I'm your friend, and Flea's. I'm Jou's mentor, I'm Saul's cook, I'm worth something to the Court. Out there I'd be nothing in those people's eyes. Son of an escaped slave, that's what they'll think of me. No better than a slave myself." Charon hesitated, glancing towards Porthos. "Maybe you could go, Porthos. Maybe if you covered your hair, kept your beard short... Maybe you'd pass. You could take Flea. She's small, she'll never be big enough to look like a well fed noblewoman, but you'd pass together."

"I don't want to pass," Porthos hissed, rage taking him as he shoved Charon into a building. "I don't want to hide myself and pretend my mother was no one, pretend there's no history to my life just because some..." he made a noise of pain and Charon pulled him closer, almost a hug between them. "I don't want to *pass*. I want my pride."

Charon pushed him away again, the both of them angry now, and with no target in reach they turned it on each other. "If you don't have pride, living amongst the people who raised you and the friends who care for you, maybe you *do* deserve to be out there. One of the nobby masses."

"If I can make something of myself, why *shouldn't* I live off my own purse?" Porthos demanded.

They were in the archway that marked the Court's entrance and Charon turned, stopping Porthos short with a hand on his chest. "You should leave," he said, grief changing anger to quiet fury. "You don't belong here anymore. Go find your purse. Find yourself some nobby lady to marry and whore yourself to. I don't care. But don't come back into this place and suggest we're nobodies because of how we live."

-

Flea was staring past him, and he wasn't sure if she'd even heard what he'd said. He moved closer, clasping her arms and resisting the urge to shake. "I want you to come with me."

She looked up, and said simply; "I want you to stay." 

The lump in Porthos' throat was hard and immovable. "Then this is us," he said gently. He glanced past her, at the bloodied mattress where their friend had passed, and knew in his heart he couldn't watch another friend die because their city considered them without worth.

"I'll take care of Charon for you," Flea said, and she was already gathering back her strength, returning to her self. She had always been so strong. "Make sure he doesn't get himself killed."

Porthos hissed. "I don't care *what* Charon does. He's made it clear what he thinks of me."

Flea reached up to lay a hand beside Porthos' cheek. "He loves you, Porthos. Never believe differently. He'll be heartbroken to see you go."

"And he told you that, did he?"

She looked past him, and he wondered where Charon was concealed to watch their parting. "It's on his face. If you'd look at him you'd see."

Porthos pulled Flea into a hug, palming her purse more by habit than need. "I have to go, Flea. I don't belong here, and I can't see another friend die needlessly. There has to be something else for me."

"You don't have to explain, Porthos. Not to me." She stepped back. "Go on. Go. You're done here, find something else to fill your life. Find some joy."

Porthos opened his mouth, still searching for the words he wanted to say, needed to say, to tell Flea how much he would miss her. How much he would miss them both. Nothing came, and swallowing down the sob that threatened, he turned his back on her and walked out of the room, out of the house, and towards the unmarked boundary of the court.

"Porthos!" she called after him, darting into the street behind him. He hesitated, half turned. He was on the outside now, already more than half gone. She lifted her hand away from her side, his purse dangling from one finger. "Don't come back here," she warned. "Not 'less you want to be robbed blind." He let his hand rest on the pocket where he'd stashed her purse, sure he would find it empty, only to find it heavier than he'd expected.

With tears in his eyes he walked out into the world.


	6. Chapter 6

It hadn't been his intention, when Porthos had left the Court, to take a menial job. But the world outside the Court's protection proved harsher than he had perceived. There were taxes and rent and food that he couldn't just take, and while he'd always dreamed of this utopia of Parisian life that he had only ever observed it proved rather less in practice.

From a lifetime of misdirection, thieving and con-work, he knew he could blend in. He could be well spoken when the call came for it, mimicking the ways of the people he saw, falling into place in his surroundings, making sure he could go unnoticed. That skill was well maintained, but now he wanted to be himself, to discover who that man might be with no masks and no illusions.

He wanted to speak with his own voice, earn his own money and make his own way with it. He had aspirations for travel and adventure, sure, but first he wanted to know what it was to live. He'd expected to have these things thrust upon him the moment he stepped out into the real world and let himself be seen.

He'd been surprised to find that Porthos the lowly carriage attendant was as invisible as Porthos the thief had ever been, and the latter had been richer in friends and accommodation than he was now, when he was forced to pay rent and water charges, and to buy food from vendors and moreover snatch a moment to eat as his employer demanded his attendance every moment of every day. It felt like he hadn't spoken to another person since he left his friends behind, like he'd given up his voice as well as his history.

It didn't fit him, not at all, but he fell into a pattern that held him in place for a long month, not starving and yet somehow not living in the way he'd envisioned. It was from the tailboard of his carriage that he saw something that inspired him to strive for more. The night was cold, and he'd been outside the Lord's acquaintance's house for close to two hours. The horses were unsettled and starting to chill, and Porthos was already cold right through, but the rabble of noise from the end of the alleyway gave him the adrenaline to stand and move alongside the horses. 

The small crowd was probably only seven or eight men, but were making noise enough for a score or more. The dusk half-light concealed them until the last moment, when they stepped out of the dark and presented themselves to his sight. The uniforms were immaculate, despite the late hour and the obvious inebriation of the soldiers wearing them, and there was no man in the crowd who wasn't touching at least one of the others. Arms across shoulders, elbows linked to elbows; the last man in the row, the youngest, was caught with his head held under one of the other men's arm, staggering as he tried to retain his balance.

They rambled to a halt, and several of the men greeted Porthos. They complimented the fine steeds of his Lord and apologised for their disruption of his quiet evening. Porthos felt seen and understood, and faced with such a show of camaraderie his heart felt full and warm for the first time since he left the Court.

Remembering words, and their uses, he complimented their uniforms, clinging to this half-conversant moment for its ease and familiarity. The youngest soldier was pushed out in front of the others while two of the older soldiers tugged his obviously new clothes and light armour straight and debated how very clean and unblemished it looked, asking Porthos to comment himself. The young solider blushed, and crossed to Porthos to get away from the hands.

"My brothers are very invested," he muttered. "They would take any excuse for a drink, my commission is tonight's cause."

"Brothers?" Porthos asked, wondering if that was the origin of the easy warmth the men shared. The all to familiar emptiness of family in his life echoed deeply once more.

"Every solider is a brother, sir," the young soldier said, gesturing to the men arrayed before him. "I know little of these men besides what I have seen since I joined the King's army, and yet I am expected to die for them. Who else would be worth such a sacrifice but blood?"

Porthos considered the worth he felt, and the worth he desired to feel, and knew where he needed to be.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos' habitual silence must have been so familiar after a childhood in the presence of the Benedictine Order.

On the day Sofia was born, her mother struggled. She had long been sick and malnourished, and the nuns feared for both lives, but by God's grace both persisted through the night and were enveloped into the Benedictine life. Her mother never spoke in all the years she lived in the monastery, which was well received by the nuns, but such was her silence that Sofia did not know anything of her conception or the history of her family, and when her mother died two years later she took anything knowledge there may have existed with her.

The monastery was a life far improved from the life of an orphan or a fosterling in a workhouse, but Sofia had never pledged her life to God - it had been pledged for her - and she saw this as a great injustice.

She was sixteen when the elderly priest of their community died, and the young man who arrived directly from the seminary was intriguing to her. She had never seen a man her age before, and the feelings he evoked were strange to her. It wasn't many months of his service to their monastery that she found herself enamoured of him, and he was still so unsure of his place in the world that he was easy to convince.

His guilt was immediate and overwhelming, and Sofia was offended by the way he turned from her naked form to offer his platitudes to God. Who was God to have earned this servitude, this loyalty. To expect her to slave silently for him and to expect her to give up love and affection in his service. She would not... she *could not* let this stand. She would have the life she wanted, and she would have it against man's loyalty to God.

The young priest would need some careful convincing, she could not be so blunt about her disregard for Heaven to him, but she had a multitude of words that she had not been allowed to voice in the monastery's silent halls, and she wished to use them all. Study the effect of every one. Learn what is was to wield a silver tongue.

"We'll go somewhere," she said to him, settling her hands on his shoulders, "Somewhere far from here."

He sagged into her side, his appeals to God for mercy weakening him. "We have nothing," he said, his tone defeated. "The Church provides for us here, but our worldly possessions are none. To live outside these walls..."

"The Church has plenty enough to provide," she coaxed, thinking of the golden vessels and rich beauty of the Church that served the monastery. "Once we are living our own lives, we will pay our taxes and the money we have earned will return to the Church. If we are successful, we may even give more to the Church than it has lent us to start our lives."

"Lives?" he asked, his body already leaning into hers. "What lives could we have?"

"You could lead a small community in prayer," she said, speaking of the longing he had admitted to. "Saving lost souls, offering solace and wise words. All that you dreamed of in the seminary."

His eyes brightened - he remembered those dreams so vividly. In service of a community, helping instead of simply standing at the head of an already strong Church. "Perhaps you could make baskets like the sisters have taught you. Or press books of flowers to teach the village girls of botany."

"I'm sure I'll find something worthy of my time," she mused, sure now that he was committed to her, his God's hold weakening.

"I could marry you there," he said, clasping her hands, his back to the cross on his wall.

She smiled, and did not contradict him.


	8. Chapter 8

Their little gang is big that year, maybe sixteen strong though she struggles now to remember more than seven or eight names. It is a hot summer in Paris and she is eight years old - almost too old for romping and screaming around the streets in torn clothes and dirty faces. Her oldest brother, Mattieu, had joined the army that spring with his best friend Jacob, for whom Constance harboured a child's infatuation, and her second brother had taken on an apprenticeship to the baker. With only two younger brothers still free to play, she had become the defacto leader of their gang.

Today they are the French army, waging war against the Spanish - whose part is played by the Butcher's chickens and single overweight pig - and they are sure to be triumphant because Yves has been learning to fight with a sword, and Russ has a stick which looks just like his father's pistol, and the Chickens might be sneaky but they have them surrounded.

They're waiting for the right moment to strike, hidden in doorways and in the shadows of stairwells. Constance isn't sure exactly what makes it the right moment, but Col had always made them wait *forever* and it always seemed to work.

There's a clatter of hooves a breath before Constance feels the tension is heightened enough, and she springs out of her hiding place with a shriek of 'The Spanish bring reinforcements!', watching her soldiers scatter into the alleys and houses.

When she thinks back, she will appreciate how calm the horse was at their sudden appearance and disappearance right under its hooves, not to rear or kick but simply shuffle to one side with a snort. In the moment, though, all she could see was the rider's uniform.

She gives up soldiers' games that summer, as the Army Captain stood in her father's house and told them that Mattieu was dead, and Jacob too, on some distant battlefield. Col comes home angry and leaves again without a tear shed but with too much in his heart. He's fortunate, the Guards tell his mother later as they deliver him home bloody faced, that it was the men in the bar that heard him curse the King's name. If a Guard had heard him, he'd be in the Chatelet.

The next night, the fight he starts kills him, and her mother falls into a deep, dark depression.

Life goes on, and Constance finds herself a young woman, casting off her childhood playmates and whimsical games. When her father tells her she will take a husband, she wants only to know whether he is the sort to get himself in trouble. Whether he's likely to die young and pointlessly.

Jacques is perfect. He will not get into fights, he will not get himself killed for some perceived offence, and he will live. She thinks it would be safe to love a man like Jacques, and works hard to make that a truth her heart believes.


	9. Chapter 9

Thierry Sereau was the second officer of the King's Army in his family, a family devoted to serving the King with heart and sword through the generations. His father had served for ten years, and he for twenty. His grandfather had taken up a sword and cut down a Spanish General when the officer for whom he had been a valet was shot down, and his story was still told amongst military circles.

The King had personally acknowledged his service when he had retired from the Army, and should his son enter the King's service then their family would be sure to attain nobility. Perhaps he would gain a small plot of land on which he could build a small house with the dowry his son's wife would bring. Thierry and his wife could live out their days at the attendance of their only son and his doting wife.

He cradled his first son in his arms and knew he expected big things for him. There was nothing he would not do to serve the tiny life in his arms, but his dream was a long one and it had kept him sane through many years of fighting.

His son was twelve, and becoming a young man, when Thierry realised that Remi would never be a soldier. He was too gentle, too quiet, too trusting. Thierry had spent many years teaching him to wield a sword and aim a pistol, starting even when the sword was taller than he, but still he preferred to wander into the village and watch Marcot work with the metal in the blacksmith's workshop.

He was fourteen when Theirry realised how very unhappy he was, and the dream of twenty years in the making was set aside as he arranged an apprenticeship with the smith in La Fere, the next village over. Remi's quiet contentment as he returned home from his first day's work, smutted and weary, brought his mother to tears of joy.

Theirry would not live to see their family become a noble one, but when Remi presented his masterpiece work - a pair of swords, intricate and yet still strong, for the young Lords in the mansion that overlooked the village - and took a payment that would match a year's soldiering wage, Theirry felt he had accomplished all he cared to.

His son could support himself and his parents when they reach that age. He was well liked, admired, and was sure to soon find a wife. Life without nobility was an easy cost to bare.

 

Remi is glad his father did not live to see his downfall. To see him retreat inside the workshop while the Comte whom he had considered a friend disappeared in mysterious circumstances, his wife's grave not yet even dug. To see him turn his back on the church and turn down female admirers, to give up on life outside his work.

Only his work continued, ever more functional and uncompromising. The quality was flawless, and his purse still supported his grieving mother as her health waned and she worried for him. The mansion was packed up and the horses sold, and Remi allowed himself to disappear further still. He slept in the smithy, working sometimes long into the night until his neighbours complained.

He thinks he sees her, from time to time. The ghost who should haunt the mansion on the hill. His sleep is never so disturbed as on those nights, and early morning sees him walking up to the tree that overlooks the village on one side and the mansion on the other. It surprises him to see it standing every time.

In his memories Anne has taken a godly aspect, though not the bright white goddess she had been to her husband before, but the wrathful gods of the ancient Greek scholars who, when enraged, could strike down lightening and fire.

That wrath had inspired him through terror to the woman's aid when she had approached him to save her life. Young Thomas, whose death had so enraged the Lord's sensibilities that bloody justice against the woman for whom his love was all encompassing seemed his only recourse, was buried only hours. Grief rang in their very bones, and none wanted to see more death. But the Lord would not be swayed, and deception - such risky deception - became their only option.

Even after all, their plan was almost for nothing in the moments when the Comtesse lay there unbreathing. Revived only by the Father's prayers and Remi's rough hands beating at her back.

He didn't blame her for leaving this place, he'd thought often in the years since that if it wasn't for his mother's care he would have followed her to Paris the night he secreted her away in the main carriage, her voice still broken and her eyes hollow.

And on fog shrouded mornings, haunted by ghosts who never died, he stood and stared at the mansion still standing, surprised that her wrath had not returned to claim it.


End file.
